


Berceuse

by Laora



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: After meeting Darius again, Therion has a rough night.





	Berceuse

**Author's Note:**

> This was gonna be part of a longer Alfion fic, but the style of that one kind of took a different turn, so I'm posting this as a stand alone!
> 
> Thus there's hints of background plot that I couldn't quite take out - essentially, I had Therion meet Darius again in Noblecourt instead of Wellspring for Plotting Reasons. We're at chapters 2/3 for everyone except Ophilia, who's gearing up for her chapter 4.
> 
> Somehow, this is the first time I've ever written a nocturnal panic attack out. Which is weird, since I got them for 15+ years... ~~(no this fic isn't extremely personal/cathartic what are you talking about)~~
> 
> (in that vein, I'm writing Therion as very extremely demi with issues with touching and trust)
> 
>  
> 
> ~~(I literally never write shipfic, if I put the ship in the tags do I need to tag the characters again or nah someone help)~~

**berceuse —** lullaby

* * *

 

It's too much.

Everything, all of it—Darius’ laughter knocking through his skull like thunder, the reminders of _falling_ and _malice_ and trust, shattered like every one of his bones—

There's a thrill of ice down his spine that wakes him from a dead sleep, a buzzing between his ears, a burning behind his eyes as he struggles to breathe, curled as he is on this mattress in the inn. He recognizes this, even as his mind struggles to process anything around the terror overwhelming any rational thought he might have had.

He recognizes it, but he hasn't had one of these for a long while. Not for _years…_ But the frustration is drowned by the fear as he twists tighter in his blanket. He feels his heart pounding, feels the nausea creeping up his throat, feels his thoughts racing through his mind with no logical pattern. Even as he barely knows where he is, he knows exactly what's happening.

But recalling past terror does nothing for him now, and _fuck_ but he's scared. Of everything and nothing, of the world going by too fast, of words reaching his ears that he can't hope to understand, of impossible demands he has no choice but to obey, of—of—of—

Darius used to beat these out of him. He'd pull Therion up by the hair and slap him across the face until his mind stopped racing (until he learned to be quiet about it—until he actually calmed down, long after Darius went back to sleep). He used to call them a sign of weakness—laugh in the face of his sheer, irrational terror—and say that any tea leaf worth his salt should have a brain to match.

Minds that betray their owners are no good, and Therion _knows_ this, but he hasn’t had one of these since the year after his fall, and he’s thought they were long behind him. A remnant of his broken childhood, a whisper of someone he once called _partner,_ and in the last rational shreds of his mind he is angry and ashamed that it has returned now, of all times.

Here, he is surrounded by those who call him _friend._ Those who would rush into danger to help him, where Darius would have let him die a hundred times over; those who offer him extra food, and ask after his health, and start up silly conversations for no reason at all.

Those who say _I love you_ like it’s nothing, when Therion’s scarcely heard those words in his life. (Those who mean it, and that might be the most frightening of all.)

They have told him and taught him that relationships are healthy, and equal, and not at all what he and Darius shared. They know next to nothing of his past and still they treat him as a friend—even when Alfyn’s eyes grow wide at the sight of his ruined body, and Tressa’s face grows pained whenever she watches him swipe something they can’t quite afford.

They know who and what he is and still they do not judge him. He has nothing (everything) to worry about, and his thoughts are running loose about his head, and he muffles a sob with practiced ease into his sheets to keep anyone from hearing.

(Alfyn’s taken to sleeping next to him, whenever possible. Therion hasn’t had the heart to dissuade him of it.)

The apothecary’s usually a heavy sleeper—but when Therion allows himself a whimper, gripping at his arms and willing his mind to calm down, the pile of green shifts beside him. He quiets instantly—tries to will his body to relax, to give the impression of sleep. But Alfyn rolls over, reaches out a hand, and mumbles something that might be his name with a question all over his voice.

He doesn’t trust his throat with words, right now. He barely trusts himself to keep from vomiting, and so he bites harder into his tongue and does not respond.

“Therion?” Alfyn asks, his voice a little clearer as he wakes up further. And though he is making (he thinks) a passable impersonation of sleep, his shoulders are shaking, and his breathing will not smooth out. His knuckles are white where they grip at his arms under the blanket, fingernails digging like knives into his skin.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Alfyn’s quiet but more alert than before. Though Therion hears the words, they slip through his mind like water, and he does not know what kind of response he wants. “Therion—“

He hears Alfyn lift himself to a sitting position on the bed. It’s a cramped room, with less than two feet between the cots, and his knees are nearly touching Therion’s mattress as he leans closer. He tries not to recoil, and mostly fails.

The cotton in his ears grows thicker, and his pulse roars through his head too fast _too fast_ and he can’t _breathe_ he’s _falling_ he’s—“Hey,” Alfyn says, his voice ticking up a bit as he leans even closer. “Hey, it’s all right—“

His breathing grows only more ragged as he buries his face into his pillow, trying and failing to get oxygen into his lungs, trying and failing to hide his fear from this man who has said he loves him. Darius told him that this is shameful, and he knows it to be true. Alfyn, surely, sees this as a sign of weakness as well. He is a grown man—a man who has taken care of himself for the better part of two decades—and he is _better than this._

But he is so _fucking scared—_

“Therion,” Alfyn shifts, and he recoils from the expected touch (scratch yank _slap)_ , but it does not come. “Therion, I need you to breathe with me, okay?”

How is he to breathe when his lungs will not comply? He heaves in another breath empty of oxygen and spits it back out in stutters, repeating the cycle over and over because it is all he can do to keep himself from falling apart completely—

“ _Therion,_ you’re hyperventilating—you need to calm down—“

He tries to laugh, but what comes out is higher pitched and more humiliating than he’s sure Alfyn’s ever heard. He twists himself further into his sheets, and feels them slip over his head. He is glad for it because it will shield him from Alfyn’s worry and Alfyn’s hands and Alfyn’s _scorn_ —

Breathing is more difficult here, but he doesn’t mind—until he feels large (gentle) hands pulling at the blanket, strong, urgent.

“Therion,” Alfyn says, more of a prayer than his name, now, as he wrestles with the sheets to pull him free. “Therion, please—“

He is yanked from the safety of his blanket and he wants to _howl_ at the loss. Alfyn is before him, tossing all the covers to the foot of the bed, and he’s a mass of green and white in his peripheral vision that refuses to form into anyone that isn’t _Darius._ He cannot bring his eyes higher than the bed as his blurring gaze skitters, as he claws at his own arms.

He has known only green and slaps and _partner brother enemy_ during his episodes and so he knows nothing else now. He knows it’s Alfyn standing here, hovering over him with hands raised and concern on his face. He knows Darius is far away, halfway to Northreach, celebrating the part of the battle he’s already won and planning his _partner’s_ more permanent demise—

He knows it and yet Darius stands before him in green and white and tousled hair. Alfyn’s worried murmurs transform into Darius’ vicious laugh, and he curls into himself, moving his grip to his hair, and tries to get _whatever this is_ out of his head.

Everything is moving too fast _too fast_ and he is falling, falling with nothing to stop him from the crags and the monsters below—

“Therion, can I touch you?” There is urgency in Darius-Alfyn’s tone, and he shies away because touch has only ever meant pain, a slash and a shove and the last human contact he ever knew until Ophilia and H’aanit met him outside Bolderfall, until—

“You’re hurting yourself,” he says, and leans in closer. Therion _keens._ “Please—“

His breathing comes faster, and he pulls at his hair, curling into a tighter ball, trying to disappear into nothing. He cannot deal with this right now.

He _can't,_ and his heart rate only marginally decreases when he hears Alfyn step audibly away from his bed. “I’m gonna getcha some water,” he says. His tone is low and measured and washes over Therion like the ocean, and he doesn’t recognize the words except that the person saying them is walking away. “Just focus on breathing, all right?”

It seems only moments later that Alfyn’s deliberate footsteps move toward him again. Therion works at burying his face more firmly in his knees, and grips at his hair tighter, and prays that he’ll leave him alone. “I’m gonna put this on the bedside table,” Alfyn says, and _clinks_ the glass on the wood, “and sit back down on my bed. I won’t touch you unless you give the okay, but I need you to try and listen to me, all right? Can you do that?”

Therion doesn’t respond except to grip at his hair tighter, but Alfyn doesn’t seem to expect him to. He sits on his bed with an audible _creak,_ and pulls his feet up under him, and keeps chattering in that way Therion (used to) hate, keeping his voice low and pleasant. He doesn’t really listen to the words he’s saying, but if nothing else, the voice is something to listen to that isn’t the white noise growing steadily in his head—

And he realizes, after several minutes of this, that it actually seems to _help._

He’s able to focus on the words Alfyn is saying—some inane story from his childhood involving his friend Zeph. The story winds with no real plot or ending, changing seamlessly into Alfyn’s ponderings on improving his latest concoction, and what his friend might think of their adventures.

This would be a lecture he would tune out, in any other scenario—but now Therion finds himself latching onto it like a lifeline, trying to force his mind to understand the words, shoving out the intrusive thoughts that have consumed him for the last half an hour.

He doesn’t notice that his grip has fallen from his hair, that he’s loosened the ball he wrapped himself into, until Alfyn pauses. “How are you doin’?” he asks, very softly, though when Therion glances up through blurry vision, he has not moved from sitting on the middle of his bed. “You up for drinkin’ some water?”

He’s not sure about _that,_ what with the nausea still roiling in his stomach, but he decides to focus on his breathing for now.

He's still shaky, both his hands and his lungs, but he thinks both will die down before morning. It’s easier to steady himself—in through his nose, and out through his mouth, with deep inhales and long exhales. He learned the count long ago, in dealing with pain—and now that he has better control of his mind, it feels worthwhile and even _achievable_ to attempt it.

“That’s it,” Alfyn says, and he’d read condescension into it in any other scenario. Now, the voice seems more real than anything has since this thing started, and he feels himself relax even further. “That’s real good, Therion—just keep breathin’ like that, this’ll end soon.”

Time passes.

Alfyn begins humming a tune Therion doesn’t recognize, one that’s low and gentle and melodic. His breathing grows ever more measured, and his mind quiets at last; his hands unclench, and he stops gnawing on his tongue and cheek. He reaches carefully to rub at his face, and half-dried tear tracks leave his fingers damp.

When he next works up the courage to look at Alfyn, there’s a little smile on his face, and his eyes are half-closed. The song is quieter, now, more meandering, and it’s clear he’s falling back asleep.

It’s the middle of the night. Of course he should be sleeping. It’s not like Therion will get any sleep tonight—not after that, with the adrenaline still buzzing through his system—but after the week they’ve had, Alfyn should get as much sleep as he can.

Therion woke him up at gods-know-what-time because of his own weakness—because he couldn’t keep his mind under control. And somehow, Alfyn was not irritated or even put out by it—and Therion cannot understand why. Why should anyone be so patient with him when he’s like this?

He works on straightening out his body on the bed, uncurling his hips and shoulders, and then begins the enormous task of sitting up. His throat feels dry, and he is immensely grateful for the water—but when he reaches for it, Alfyn stirs from his half-sleep.

“Heya,” he says, sleep-muddled all over again, though his smile is warm as he looks across to Therion. “You feelin’ better?”

He nods—all things considered—and takes small sips of the water around his trembling hands. “You didn’t need to do that,” he mutters, and finds he cannot meet Alfyn’s eyes.

“‘Course I did,” Alfyn says, a crease forming around his eyes, though his voice is still soft. “Panic attacks are no joke, especially in the middle of the night—I’m not just gonna let ya go through that on your own!”

He stills, the glass halfway to his lips, before slowly putting it back down. There’s a name for this? “Panic attacks?” he repeats, trying the phrase on his tongue, and Alfyn cocks his head.

“Guess I shouldn’t assume,” he says, “but that’s what it seemed like to me. Do you get them often?”

“Not for years,” he says, and swallows down his surprise as he takes another sip of water. “Since I was a kid.”

Alfyn hums sympathetically. “Zeph used to get them when he was younger, too,” he says. “He got real clingy, during and after—‘specially after his dad passed. Flared up a lot, nocturnal-like, when he was stressed, or somethin’ bad happened. I’m guessin’, but...well, you've had a rough couple days, yeah?”

Therion doesn’t know how to reply—doesn’t know what Alfyn wants to hear in response. He stays quiet. “What’d you used to do for ‘em, when you were younger?” Alfyn asks after a moment. “Find anything that helped?”

Therion hesitates. Nowadays, he can’t exactly consider Darius’ _help_ to be anything but abuse. “Fresh air,” he says eventually. “Mostly, I just waited them out, gave up on sleep for the night.”

Alfyn hums again, a grimace growing on his face. “Glad I was able to help, then.”

“You didn’t need to,” Therion mutters again, and rubs at the nail indents in his upper arms. Not too many of them are bleeding, when he glances down to check, but they’ve started to hurt. It's a sign that he’s coming back to himself, but at the same time—“I would’ve been fine on my own.”

“Sure,” Alfyn agrees, “but you didn’t _need_ to handle it on your own, yeah? That’s what friends are for—any one of us woulda talked ya through it, no question.”

He clenches his teeth. “It’s embarrassing. It’s a weakness, and a liability, and—“

“Woah, woah,” Alfyn cuts him off, brows rising as he leans forward over his crossed legs. “They don’t mean you’re _weak!_ Shucks, I’ve known people to get ‘em for no reason at all, just ‘cause their mind don’t always work the way it should. And people with issues, or bad pasts, or anythin’ like that—well, they're just more prone to it. There’s no shame in ‘em, I promise you that.”

He says nothing, trying to digest this. “I didn’t know other people got them,” he says at last, very quietly, and Alfyn makes a distressed noise.

“Sure,” he says. “Like I said, Zeph used to get ‘em all the time, and there’s plenty of tonics that’re supposed to help you sleep, afterward. There’s a whole chapter in one of my books on panic attacks, anxiety, night terrors, the whole nine yards. I can look into it, if they keep buggin’ ya.”

Therion says nothing, continuing to rub at his arms and stare at his knees. “You don’t need to do that,” he says at length, tucking his chin a bit more, and Alfyn sighs.

“Just ‘cause you used to deal with ‘em on your own doesn’t mean you need to now. It’s doable, sure, but you don’t _wanna_ do it that way.”

More silence. Therion focuses on his breathing, and keeps Alfyn in his peripheral vision, and tries to calm down. The all-consuming panic is gone, but the dregs of the attack remain—and he knows that he’s going to feel like shit, come morning, even if he does manage to fall back asleep. They need to leave early—he needs to return to Bolderfall, and Ophilia needs to find her sister, and the others have their own issues to deal with. At this point, he will only slow them down.

“Ophilia’s had a shittier week than I have,” he says quietly.

“It ain’t a competition,” Alfyn scratches the back of his head, and frowns. “You don’t need to worry about the rest of us right now, all right? I know you’re feelin’ awful after that episode, no need to hide it.”

Therion ducks his head further, and Alfyn sighs. He gets up off his bed, but walks the other way, toward the window—and cranks it open just enough to let the night breeze through. “You should try and get some rest,” he says, and moves toward the hearth. “I’ll make ya some chamomile, it might help a bit—and let me know if you need anything else, right?”

Therion blinks, and then Alfyn is pressing a mug into his hands, steam rising from it with an earthy scent he doesn’t recognize. Their fingers brush, and Alfyn mumbles an apology as he pulls away, but Therion reaches out with his free hand to stop him.

Alfyn freezes. Their fingers twine together, and Therion is just as surprised when he pulls Alfyn to sit beside him on the bed. He complies easily, sitting several inches away and obviously making an attempt to give him the space he’s always asked for. It’s respecting the boundaries he set—it’s another way Alfyn shows he cares.

Darius never would have stopped touching him just because he asked.

Tonight, Therion is tired, and hurting, but well cared for. Tonight, he had an attack, and got talked through it by someone who only wanted to help. Tonight, instead of bleeding and crying and struggling to breathe, he’s surrounded by warmth and comfort and _trust._

Tonight, contact with Alfyn Greengrass feels safer than anything has since before his fall.

“Therion,” Alfyn says, his voice low, and gently tries to pull his hand away.

“Stay,” he mumbles, and tries a sip of the tea, and twitches his fingers around Alfyn’s. “I trust you.”


End file.
